


Fog

by eyemeohmy



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Sexuality, Stupid Drunk Babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemeohmy/pseuds/eyemeohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both of them are tired and drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fog

**Author's Note:**

> Short ficlet. Ran with a mental image I had. It totally flies by the logic of them both being shitfaced.

Pharma was very, very drunk.

Which was extremely rare, in fact. He always preferred to keep a clear mind; always made sure it was razor sharp. He refused to ever subject himself to something that would dull his senses and slow down his mind. Even when Pharma slept, there were still programs running, and he made sure he never reached the brink of shut-down from overworking his CPU. He was a doctor, after all, and if he was going to take care of people, he also needed to take care of himself. So, booze was usually always out of the question.

But Pharma was also very, very stressed.

It was not unusual for Pharma to be curt or blunt with his patients. Even more so with his staff. He was notorious for being difficult to work with, but not because of his attitude. People usually just couldn’t keep up. He worked fast, thought fast, and expected the same of his employees. Pharma was direct, straight to the point, and vocal about his opinions, good and bad. And he could be harsh; very, very harsh, to the point of almost cruel, when giving criticism or reprimanding.

However, the past few weeks… He was colder, more impatient, extremely on edge. Pharma was a man all about control; a perfectionist who _could not_ make a mistake. And it was obvious he was losing his grip. Something was driving him into a corner, and control was slowly slipping through his fingers. So he berated those who second guessed him, tore down employees or patients who would even attempt to correct or argue with or doubt him.

Not exactly interested in engaging in conversations with most people, he did still listen. Now? No one could get in a damn word. Everyone was too afraid to try. And so they had been forced to walk on eggshells around Pharma.

This, however, only made matters worse. They could see him faltering. They knew he was stressed. They knew something was wrong. Pharma was better than that - he was always so good at keeping his emotions in check. He always had complete control. But now… He already felt weak, but knowing others could see something was wrong, he felt totally powerless.

So, despite Pharma’s stance against consuming alcohol, he went out and got drunk anyway.

Ambulon was very, very drunk.

Unlike his chief medical officer, Ambulon wasn’t adverse to the occasional drink. Especially after a long day at work. Besides, he worked for _Pharma_. Sometimes it took a good cube of high grade to get rid of that irritable edge Pharma ground into his ego. It wasn’t an everyday thing - once every few days, perhaps. Always one glass. Never get past buzzed; just enough to numb his sensors and sleep a little heavy that night. Nothing that would give him a hang-over the morning after. He didn’t need a pounding migraine - Pharma was one enough.

Today had been one of those days. Lots of work, lots of Pharma bitching. Especially when his stress levels seemed through the roof these days. Ambulon was almost concerned enough to ask what was wrong. Almost. But that meant asking Pharma to open up, which was utterly ridiculous and futile a task.

Besides, while he cared for his boss’s health, he did not really care all that much. Just as long as Pharma wasn’t falling over, croaking and vomiting, Ambulon would not pry.

And, honestly, Ambulon had not expected to find himself sitting side by side with his boss at the little hole-in-the-wall bar.

They exchanged very brief words, but mostly spent their time drinking and… attempting to relax. It was a little easier for Ambulon. He was never a sloppy, obnoxious drunk; always kept himself composed and poised, even when shitfaced. It was hard to tell if he was irritated, or drunk-irritated.

Pharma, however… looked like he couldn’t relax even if he was drugged to the gills. And as the beer flowed and Ambulon grew drowsier, the more he found himself wanting to ask the jet what the Hell was up, man? Strung so tightly, slight movement and Pharma would break into pieces.

Ambulon never did ask.

As the hours passed, and one mug turned to two turned to four turned to six, that cold, awkward distance between Pharma and Ambulon slowly began to close. 

Neither were sure what sealed up that space. But there they were—sitting side by side, literally, slumped against one another, knocking back high grade, mumbling about nothing while pretending it was about everything. A few patrons snickered at them from behind their back, but they did not care. Most of the noise had drowned away; they could only really hear themselves.

Pharma and Ambulon were very, very drunk, and strangely, very, very lonely.

Logic, common sense, everything sane in the world went circling down the drain. If they could think clearly, they’d realize how dangerous this was. Mostly stupid, really. However, a tsunami-wave of liquor had knocked down their walls, and they dragged each other back to the clinic, arms slung over shoulders and waist. Silence interrupted with short bursts of inane chatter, but for the most part, they simply… concentrated on walking. Not entirely ignoring the warmth between their bodies, but not addressing it either.

Well.

For now.

Ambulon had intended to drop Pharma off at his quarters. Give him some regular energon to wash out that sludge from his system. Just enough to sleep comfortably and wake with a more tolerable hang-over. He would make sure his boss was okay to be alone, then leave. That was the plan.

But in the end, whatever won out - the booze, or the loneliness, or maybe a cocktail of both - Pharma was stumbling on his big feet over to his slab. Plopped down on the edge, sat there in silence, and slowly pushed his face in his hands. He exhaled; heavy, so exhausted. Then a second pair of hands were gently prying his away from his face, and Pharma blinked tiredly as he looked up. Watched Ambulon set his hands aside and then slowly slide up into his lap. Both knees pressed to the outsides of the jet’s hips.

Pharma blinked again, then sighed. He closed his optics and gently dropped his forehead to Ambulon’s chest. White fingers gently stroked up his shoulders, along his throat and cheeks, stopping to cup his helm. Ambulon closed his optics, standing taller than Pharma on his knees, and bowed his head; gently caressed the top of Pharma’s helm.

Hands rested gently on Ambulon’s hips. Never squeezing, just… there.

The warden worked digits into Pharma’s head. Finding all the sore spots and massaging out the ache. Pharma groaned, slipping against Ambulon; nonetheless, Ambulon continued stroking and kneading. He gave Pharma’s head a small pat, and the medic obediently sat upright. Fingers moved down to work thumbs in circles against Pharma’s temples, dragging them up along crest, then back to temples.

A blue hand snaked around Ambulon, pressing, clutching his back. Pulling him closer, until Pharma could smell that godawful cheap paint. Not that he cared at the moment. His fingers twitched in feather-light strokes, barely moving against the warden’s backstrut. Optics dimmed. He sighed, again - another tired little thing.

God, was Pharma _tired_.

After a five minute head-massage, Pharma tilted his head up. His nose bumped and nudged against the edge of Ambulon’s chin guard. Blinking groggily, Ambulon looked down; he understood soon enough. He lowered himself, sitting and straddling Pharma’s lap; his hands slipped back along the medic’s cheeks, and their noses nuzzled, lips brushing but not quite sealing. Their optics closed, they finally took that remaining space - just like the one between their stools at that dingy little bar - and kissed.

They could taste the high grade on each others lips and tongues. A bitter taste, but they were too drunk to notice or care. Much like how… wrong this felt. It didn’t matter; not right now. So they kissed and they kissed and they kissed. Pulling away, but never completely, to cycle hot, humid air between them, only to dive into each other again. Nothing fast, nothing bruising, nothing too desperate.

Slow. Deep. Careful.

Another kiss, one that had lasted three minutes, and Pharma’s lips breathed words quietly on Ambulon’s as they drew back.

"I’m tired."

Ambulon bumped crest to crest with the medic. “Yeah,” he said.

"I’m… _tired_.”

One hand ran down Pharma’s arm. “Yeah.”

Pharma kissed Ambulon again.

He kissed him again, and then he stopped.

Ambulon crawled off Pharma’s lap with a little wiggle. He lightly stroked one shoulder vent, fingers stilling a second before dropping. “Go to sleep,” he said, quietly.

Pharma pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Go to sleep," Ambulon said, again. "I need to go."

"Remind me… to reprimand you. Tomorrow."

"Right."

Ambulon lingered at the door. He looked back from the corners of his optics. “Drink the energon,” he ordered in a tone fitting of a doctor. The door hissed shut behind him. When Pharma looked up, he was alone.

Pharma stared at the door for a moment or two, until the room suddenly grew darker and darker. He laid back on his slab, and buried his face in his shaking hands.

“ _I’m so tired_.”


End file.
